Sithric grinned and winked at Van Reiver before slipping out.
Bullsen shook his head at the door and swung in his chair to stare astern. Mind made up, he squeaked around to Van Reiver. "Dinner's in two hours; let her sleep and clean up in peace. The quartermaster knows what to do. He deals with the aristocracy often enough, so take her and her father at face value. I will see her then and the Principal Sunjammer afterwards." Van Reiver set his glass down, surmising dismissal. He didn't understand why Bullsen would want the sunjammer, and if the captain planned to be forthcoming, he would have spoken. Bullsen added an afterthought, "Have a chat with the bosun and cox'n."
"Right away, sir." Van Reiver rose, interpreting 'have a chat' as Bullsen politeness for 'now'. Like Sithric, he hesitated, albeit minus the jesting, as he breathed in and tugged the damn jacket down. He'd carried an uncomfortable feeling since leaving the wardroom, and it festered in his guts.
"It maybe nothing, but I think the young woman may be talented." Van Reiver blurted. He clamped his mouth shut too late, thoughts roiling as though he'd vomited over the polished wooden desk. He gulped, feeling acid flood his throat.
"Talented, how? Mystically?" Bullsen asked, intrigued, with curious down-turned eyes.
"I had the distinct impression she read my mind. It was an uncanny and disconcerting conversation. She picked up the animosity between myself and the third mate and delayed answering my questions. I am convinced that was why I had so few answered. I would assume her story of significance to her rescuers. As their rescuers, I mean, regardless of their mission."
Bullsen looked up, his eyes steady, as though marking each one of Van Reiver's excuses. "It could be possible. It isn't as uncommon as people believe. If my old memory serves, a few of The Citadel guilds use it as a training indicator." Bullsen reclined and steepled his fingers over an ample chest. "Is something else wrong, Edouard?"
Van Reiver shook his head. After a moment of study, Bullsen looked at his desk and lifted a tiny scroll in thick fingers. Taking the hint, Van Reiver scurried out. On this voyage, a cantankerous fatherly Bullsen had evolved into a short-tempered capricious patriarch. Bollocks.
.*.*.
Van Reiver frowned his frustrations over the bow behind the forward ballista on the high fo'c's'le. He watched the sea furl past and tumble along the dark-blue hull. The bow curved down from the deck to bulge out at the waterline. The copper plating gleamed above the water—or amber. It was a hypnotic sight. Fascinating and relaxing to the senses, as the orange water foamed white and hissed on the sunjammer plating. He breathed the heady tang of salt through his nose and felt the tightness recede from his shoulders.
Out of the corner of his eye, the navigator spotted the stocky form of Coxswain Grimm and his rangy friend, Bosun Claus Wittmann, split around the foremast. With a surreptitious glance around to ensure they were alone—or as alone as they would get on a giant ship of war—he brought them up to date.
"A week out, you say, sir?" Grimm rubbed at the stubble on his square head. A frequent gesture, having given up the pipe on the last voyage. Mulling matters, he gave the boat on their deck a narrow look.
"You've been at sea a while; does it bear out?" Van Reiver pressed.
"No reason not to. I chatted to Claus earlier, and neither of us saw anythin' odd. The boat's copper plating showed more wear than a few weeks, but you'd 'ave the odd ding from regular use. Not an open water boat, maybe a harbour one, or it would have a gem in it like our three."
"I thought the same. If it came from a dromus, would that make it Atlantean? Nothing strange otherwise?"
"Nope, just what you'd figure. Two small, broached supply cases in the bows and a decent size expensive lookin' case apiece. Most dromus are Atlantean—as patrol craft in their fleets scattered around their outposts, or fast traders with the bigger mercantile families. Could be, as few people can afford 'em without slavin' to fill their rowers. I hear they clean out their jails when they build a new one. I don't recognise the maker's marks on that boat if you're after specifics. They build most at the Arsenal in Atlantis, but I heard they were building a second Arsenal in the Inner Sea, with rumours of tensions out there."
"Hmm, that's an East Spires problem. I doubt anything to do with a boat being out here half a world away. Cases? Does Bullsen know?"
Wittmann inclined his head, showing Van Reiver their location below. "There's just one thing, sir," he said, running his hand up the downhaul line, "You said there was a sailor?"
"Yes, Popul—before he got himself eaten." Van Reiver noticed Grimm's eyes light up, "No third bag!"
Grimm stabbed a thick forefinger into his palm. "Any experienced sailor would take his ditty-bag and muster chit with him. No messin', it isn't done."
"Even if the ship's under fire and he got told to crew a boat sharpish?" Wittmann countered. Unlike his tone, his round face remained calm as he eyed both men. "The Atlanteans aren't big on crew space for men. They are notoriously light on deckhands, and most of their skippers are bastards." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark grey trousers.
"Maybe it could've disappeared in the storm, or one of them lobbed it overboard." Grimm looked at Van Reiver, "I think that's a question to ask your new lady friend, sir." Van Reiver saw him wink at Wittmann, who rolled his eyes.
"Now remember, the captain is concerned and would be upset if it becomes a problem."
Grimm smirked wider, but puzzlement filled Wittmann's face. Grimm chuckled, before adding as an afterthought, "I'll make sure myself, Claus and Lexon from the tin-heads are on duty if you're of a mind for us to speak to him, sir?"
Van Reiver rolled his shoulders in reluctant agreement. It made sense, unless Bullsen was keeping him out of the way deliberately.
Wittmann affirmed, "It makes sense to have our marines aware, he's sensible when not at the dominoes."
"Just him." Van Reiver ordered. "Could you also do me a favour, Cox'n?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Can you get me a hand-bow from the cabinet with a few reloads and leave it in my cabin?"
"Is the cook miffed again?" Grimm smirked as Van Reiver looked skywards. Take a breath, Van Reiver thought. It's his pastime to bait the ship's officers and not a challenge to your authority.
"Just a hunch, it is less obvious you doing it." Van Reiver said, thumping his brass key across into the callused palm. "Sometime when we eat. I think it will inspire the doctor to tidy up, now he doesn't have a priest to complain at."
"Heh, good one, I like that. You should suggest it to our first mate, from what I hear. I'll see to it and leave your key with young Jimi, sir."
"Perfect, I'll see if the quartermaster has sorted our guests' togs. Thank you, gentlemen."
.*.*.
A thumping crash, followed by sulphurous curses, caused Van Reiver to slide the last six steps down the lower larboard companionway to the deck below. He stumbled and threw out a hand onto the bulkhead to catch himself and found Seaman Harcux booming abuse at a much smaller marine, who was rolling to his knees. The marine's kit lay strewn across the passage, soaking up the flood from a pair of upended wooden buckets. Harcux bit off his tirade and glanced at the new arrival. Van Reiver forced himself to straighten and not gulp with fear. Weakness rekindled his anger, and he glanced at the Marine, then at Harcux.
"Enough!" he snarled. The marine scrambled upright, damp and red-faced in anger, as Van Reiver forced a normal tone into his voice, "Collision?"
"This fuckin' blind fool can't keep left! How the fuckin' fuck—" erupted Harcux, crouching his huge six-and-a-half-foot frame to avoid banging his head. It made the man look comical conducting a rant.
The marine opened his mouth, refusing to yield an inch to the bigger man. Van Reiver stamped with all his authority. "Enough, I said!" Harcux flushed, taking a running jump at apoplexy. Van Reiver clenched his jaw muscles until they throbbed, "That, is, quite, enough!" In a calmer voice, "Are you carrying water for the guests, Harcux?"
Harcux
nodded, seeming not to trust himself to speak. It would be unusual for the man to carry buckets of water aft to the officers' quarters, given his early evening watch on deck. Van Reiver flicked his eyes back to the younger marine, who stood dripping, looking irritated.
"Sortin' my kit for the inspection, sir." The marine sighed in exasperation, before sneaking a filthy look. "Again." Harcux grinned, eyes shrewd, daring the marine. Idiot, thought Van Reiver, fed up with Tryphon's petty politics.
"Well, now you both carry water. They are important folk and do not expect to wait on halfwits." Van Reiver instructed. The marine looked to Harcux and shrugged. The red-faced sailor held a faint smirk as he popped scarred knuckles. "You bear water to our guests and then clean this up. Perhaps after this, you both can be sensible."
Harcux smirked wider, narrow eyes dancing over his beard with suppressed laughter. The marine looked thoroughly unimpressed, yet kept hands rigid on the seams of his trousers. Van Reiver stared at them, driving the point home as sullenness, resentment and fury stared back.
"Afterwards, ensure his kit is the shiniest, smartest set of gear on display tomorrow." Harcux' eyes bulged, his jaw muscles strained like a boil threatening imminent eruption, before he nodded acquiescence. Van Reiver asked in a harder tone, "Would you prefer defaulters with the first mate in front of the inspection?" The marine shook his head. Harcux undertook his impression of a rock. "Carry on." Van Reiver stepped around them over the sodden planking and hoped that would be an end to it as he rapped on the quartermasters' door.
He opened the door, almost flattening the man with his ear at the lock. Jumping backwards, the quartermaster twisted to avoid being struck by the heavy brass handle, his thick wig of blond hair swaying precariously on his cone-shaped head. Van Reiver dragged his eyes elsewhere from the eccentric movement to avoid uncontrollable giggles. He turned around, forcing his face smooth, and closed the door with a firm click. His eyes bored into the oaken planking as he struggled for composure.
"Sorry for startling you, Mr Hadly," he announced, suppressing a manic urge to laugh at the unfading mental image, "I came to check on matters for our new passengers."
"Of course. That oaf Harcux has the water, and the powder and soap are ready to go on up. Oh, the clothes for the lady, assuming she's one." The quartermaster waved his hand, dismissing the affair.
"She is. Would you like me to take them?" Van Reiver offered, attempting politeness. Like all Tryphon's officers, Van Reiver ignored Hadly's attitude, viewing him as a necessary evil. The prices the man charged were better than what he could negotiate with all the mercantile skills his father had taught him. It proved he was no merchant, much to the disappointment of his parents at home in Tregallon, the West Spires capital. He suppressed the morose memory. Dealing with Hadly was depressing enough, and a thorn under his nail to match Comace.
"If you wish to carry them, fine," Hadly straightened his wig, then turned to a black leather-bound ledger on the counter. Van Reiver saw a small stack of clothes and the cask of vex powder used to purify the acid-tainted sea water for drinking and bathing. Hadly made no move to pass them, or open the door. Prick.
With exaggerated politeness, Van Reiver asked. "Would you be so terribly kind as to open the door, sir?"
Thudding his ledger down, Hadly flounced over to the door, snatched it open and waved the navigator through. Nodding his thanks, Van Reiver wondered who else he'd pissed off as the door slammed in his ear. Chuckling again at the wobbling wig, he trudged up a deck to his cabin, brushing a brass lantern to leave it gently swinging in his wake with the faintest of squeaks. The flame spluttered, then the wick glowed orange and faded into darkness. Feeling unseen eyes on him, he turned to see a small black and white cat padding on silent feet after him and rubbing its cheek on the bulkhead under the lantern. Looking at him as though it had decided, it gave a long meow of satisfaction, its unnatural green eyes boundless pools of wisdom and superiority, before it turned and walked the other way. Van Reiver shrugged. The world, Tryphon's officers and the damn cat made no sense.
4
"I hear you've been busy?" Gabriel Dagmar smirked a welcome, stirring himself from the depths of his chair where he and his robe all but disappeared into the cushioning. Van Reiver's friend and Tryphon's deputy sunjammer peddled his sarcasm like a tinker with cheap pots. Van Reiver thudded into a burgundy leather chair beside him in the now empty wardroom. He took the proffered tankard as a laconic expression studied him under untidy wavy brown hair. Unlike other officers and men, though, the magus' red eyes no longer bothered him.
"It was a break from the usual drudgery. I need one of these after my watch." Van Reiver politely kept back several caustic beard remarks. The narrow strap of dark beard on his friend's pointed chin always amused him, in contrast to his own goatee—a proper facial growth for a man, not a rat... or even a scrawny fucker of a light-tosser. "Have you had fun playing with your pet ruby? Taxing, is it? I can't believe people get paid to sit on their arse for half a day scratching their balls for a living while groping a rock," he baited.
"Now, now," scoffed Dagmar, sounding adenoidal on purpose, his eyes narrowing. "You will not provoke a rise with a puny comment like that. I'm tired. I had a terrible night, with strange dreams of a doomed city on a blue-grey ocean."
Van Reiver gave him a curious look, "Hmm, that's weird. I thought of blue seas when daydreaming earlier. What are the odds on that?"
"Very slim to non-existent. Most odd, my friend. Most odd." Dagmar's eyes went distant for a moment and almost didn't return until Van Reiver cleared his throat.
"Uh-huh. Is it correct, Dag, telepathy is an indicator for your guilds when accepting initiates?"
The magus straightened in his chair with a creak of padding at the subject change to familiar ground. "Sometimes. It can be a potent ability for a magus. It isn't liked anywhere, thanks to the potential for severe abuse. You know, mindfuckery seriously frowned upon by the peasantry, and all that. Why the long face, Eddie? I assumed you'd be happier, having got a decent position on a great ship despite your fancy dressed underling?" Dagmar fingered the two gold rings circling his cuff.
"I've a strong hunch this Carla is one," Van Reiver replied with growing confidence, feigning obliviousness to the questions Dagmar posed.
"A reader, here on Tryphon? Reading your fucking mind, oh great cod's head of the ocean?" Dagmar erupted, ignoring the evasion.
"I know how it sounds with bumping into them, but I've had a weird feeling since speaking to her."
"Define weird?" Grinning, Dagmar leaned in, as though confiding a great secret. "Is it not because rumour suggests she is pretty, with large violet eyes and a breathy appealing voice? That's unusual, you know. The eyes, I mean. The latter sounds… interesting for nobility?"
Van Reiver shrugged, "My friend, she's struggling to speak. At most—and I tried—I got a dozen sentences out of her before she went snoozing on the table yonder after ripping the piss at the sunny disposition our esteemed third mate adopts near me. Anything compared to the ship's goat on two upright legs is attractive to the crew." He was aware the sunjammer was only serious about magic and smirked across his tankard.
"It's about time you considered settling down with a wife," Dagmar suggested, smirking wider. "Trading up won't be so bad for a merchant's wayward son."
"Fuck off!"
"Now, now, you are getting on in rank and age after running away to sea. You'll make a fine prospect for a homely young woman wanting her buns baked."
Van Reiver turned, inwardly seething, and felt the first flush of anger on his cheeks. "You're giving me marriage advice? You? What're your father's court duties, Squire of the Prince's Door?"
"Hah! Close, you grumpy sod, so calm that temper of yours. Principal Squire of the Princes Castle, or something. No doubt it was important millennia ago when huddled in furs around a fire singing songs about how the ancient Aquitani ancestors fled Atlantis."
"Uh huh, same difference, a doorman's brat
and you're older than me. You should be the one worried, bachelor noble and Citadel rebel."
"Err, don't, as it's complicated. The Citadel and gentry prefer to avoid mixing marriages regardless of eligible age. I think it's something to do with embarrassing duels and not pissing off someone who can burn your estate down. Squire Daddy Doorman will need to disinherit me for my nephew with my commitment to the guild. He's a good lad and might like the attention at court as a statue, but I figure you're more likely being hauled off to a temple, than me. Although I'm not enough of a bastard to wish that on his innocent soul. I leave that one to my parents to decide as my mother is holding out."
"Chickenshit."
"I heard clinking earlier. Robsin has his perfumes out, so it sounds promising, my friend. You may need to change your opinions and small clothes. Get in there, get sticky and smelly."
"Piss off, Dag, he'll be at his last gin bottle that's squirrelled away." Van Reiver glared, seeking solace in his tankard.
"Hah! Do you want to talk about it?" Dagmar pressed, as though trying to be less annoying.
"Dunno, it's a weird feeling since I saw the boat. Until I know what about, there's no point?"
Dagmar threw a look as though giving the opportunity to continue. Van Reiver declined, looking out of the scuttle, forcing Dagmar to drop the matter. Van Reiver knew they'd speak when needed. Their backgrounds differed enormously, but Van Reiver cherished their friendship and the ability to talk openly without judgement. Forged with the bond of being different to those of entitled conservatism in the classrooms and dormitories of the famed West Spires naval college.
The strange feeling still wouldn't depart. Why couldn't it fuck off? It made Van Reiver edgy and self-consciously claustrophobic as it lodged in his guts like indigestion. Edginess seemed paranoid when aboard the largest three-masted warship on the oceans. He forced himself past moodiness that dangled like a loose anchor under his feet and plastered on a semblance of a smile.
THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1) Page 4
